Page 7 of Beyond Friendship

As I watch her walk away, an onslaught of unknown but powerful feelings course through me like boiling hot coals.

Guess Karma is wearing heels tonight.

2

AMANDA

TWO YEARS LATER

I gasp in disbelief,my breath hitching as I rake a hand through my hair while squinting at the barely white and so far from the vibrant pearl walls I intended my store to have. This isn’t what I asked for. This is—totally hideous.

My stomach churns with anxiety, frustration boiling beneath the surface. The store needs vibrance, something that’ll catch people’s eye and draw them in. Not this dullness; not when I’ve worked so hard to get everything ready for the grand opening in seven days.

I march toward the cans of paint that the painters left behind and grab for my phone to call them back when I finally read the labels—Powder White.How hadn’t I noticed it?Probably because I was too busy running around getting everything done and had just assumed it was the right paint. Working in fashion has been a dream of mine since I was young. So when the chance to work at an upscale fashion store in New York City came up after I graduated, I was ecstatic. Although I enjoyed the job for some time, they eventually began to cater to an unrealistic beauty standard with their clothing sizes. I expressed dissent toward this and was given the ultimatum: accept it or find another job. At first, I stayed because I needed the money, but when I found a woman sobbing and scolding herself in the dressing room because she couldn’t find anything that fit her, I knew I couldn’t stay any longer. Counseled by a dad who had opened his own gym and instilled in Nick and me the importance of achieving our dreams, I knew what I had to do—open a store of my very own. A place where women can be empowered, feel beautiful and accepted regardless of size and shape, without the pressure of impossible ideals pushed by society. I want it to be a safe space for all women to embrace themselves and all of their quirks, flaws, and unique qualities without judgment. But now, looking at the walls, I feel like a failure. I put all my savings into this dream. And the thought of it falling apart is my worst nightmare.

I swallow down the growing panic at the chaos around me and take a deep breath in and out. Okay, everything will be okay. I can figure this out. Three long hours later, after frantically searching multiple stores, I’m surrounded by the correct color paint cans and stare at the task ahead.

I reach for my phone to call Nick but remember he and Cole are away on business.

Shit. I consider Brian. He said he’d help when he had time. But with Six-Pack’s sudden success, his workload must be insurmountable. I can’t ask him to take care of a problem I’ve made for myself. And with my parents gone for a few days, I’m on my own. I huff, regretting that I haven’t taken the time to get out and make friends since moving back to Boston. Female friends would be great; someone to open up to and spend quality moments with. But today won’t be it; instead, I tie my hair into a ponytail, donning an old pair of jeans and flats as I get started, alone.

The bass throbs through my speakers, drowning out all other concerns except the task at hand—three days until the shipment of clothes arrives. The garments must be hung up straight, and since I don’t have enough storage space for them now, the paint needs to be bone dry before delivery.

A pleased smile forms on my face as my brush moves up and down gracefully, coating the wall in pearl white. But the optimism fades quickly when I realize that two coats are necessary for an even result. I’m going to be here all day and night, alone with my spiraling worries.What if the store can’t keep up? What if I can’t bring in enough customers? Will I succeed or will all this effort have been for nothing?

During a quick lunch break, I answer Nick’s text, wherein he asks me how it’s going. I sugarcoat it, not wanting to worry him but making it believable by saying I’m a little overwhelmed and stressed. The sudden ping notifies an incoming message in my mailbox. My fingers tremble as I open the email that reads “Delivery Notice.” No! After a call, the voice on the other end of the line confirms my worst fears. Instead of arriving in three days, my clothes will be here tomorrow afternoon.

Jesus. Tears prick at my eyes, but I quickly wipe them away. No time for a pity party. My jaw clenches as anger and frustration rise from my gut and swirl around me, but I shove it all down. It’s fight or flight, and I’m ready to fight. This is my dream, and I’m going to make it a success.

Many hours later, my arm and shoulder scream with pain as they pump up and down, while my legs feel numb. It’s one o’clock in the morning and all I’ve done is paint for hours on end, pausing only to sip a cup of coffee or make use of the restroom. My eyes are strained, exhausted, begging for restful sleep, when a throat clears behind me.

Pivoting around, my heart leaps at the sight of the man who does weird things to my ticker every damn time.

I try to give him a small, yet genuine smile, but my lips can barely form one.

“What are you doing here?” I say.

Brian smiles. “Nick called me. He said he was worried about you after reading your text.”

It’s clear my brother saw right through my polite words.

Brian’s gaze drifts over me and he frowns. “What are you still doing here? You look like you’re about to drop dead on your feet.”

“Thanks for the pep talk,” I mumble, gesturing to the half-painted walls as I slap another coat of paint onto it. “I’m still here because I bought the wrong shade and am trying to fix it, but it needs a double coat to look like I intended it.

“Can’t it wait till tomorrow?” he suggests.

I stop painting and peer up at him. “I received an email that my shipment is coming tomorrow rather than the day after.”

“Ah, okay,” he says. “Why didn’t you call me for help, Amanda?” he asks, his voice heavy with concern.

“Because I put myself in this mess.” My arms move, but my fingers are starting to feel numb from constantly gripping this brush.

Seconds later, I find Brian beside me. His coat is gone, and he squats next to me while grabbing a new brush and dipping it into the can of paint.

“What are you doing?” I whisper.

Our eyes meet in a moment of stillness, and he tenderly tucks an unruly lock of my hair behind my ear. The soft, compassionate smile on his face intensifies that connection I’ve been trying to withstand, but it sticks like glue.

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